7
by Enchantable
Summary: In between 5.16 and 5.17, on his bender, Castiel finds a list of seven deadly sins that he's been carrying around. Drunk, he decides to experience them all--with a little help from a familiar demon.
1. Sins

**Tag to 5.16 and 5.17. Warnings for sex and violence and Castiel having a breakdown. **

**ALSO these are short drabbles, each corresponding to a single item on the list, not full on oneshots. Please keep that in mind!**

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He's carried the list around in his pocket for a very long time.

Its a simple list really, just seven words written with a pencil he found in the pocket of Jimmy Novak's trench coat. He can't quite remember when he moved the list into the inner pocket of the trench coat and forgot about it, but he finds it when he is halfway through drinking the liquor store. When the liquor's stopped burning and the ache in his heart has lessened thanks to the fog. He's reaching into his pocket thinking he'll lay a few bills onto the counter just for the sake of what humans do, even if a few bills won't cover the cost of the store and the owner is laying dead thanks to a fight Castiel attributes to the squabbling of Angels and Demons. The liquor store crackles with it and he finds it both amusing and tragic that he feels comforted by the familiar sting.

He's halfway through the last bottle of Jack Daniel's in the store when he decides to pay. A quick search of his pockets and he comes up with two crumpled bills that he vaguely remembers a lady handing him when he paid for his burger binge during famine's influence, the cell phone with the annoying, invisible lady who tells him things he does not understand or want to hear and the list. He knows he's drunk when his foggy mind fails to make heads or tails of the list. So he polishes off the last of the bottle, moves onto the tequila section and sits down to figure it out. He drinks the liquor store like he does everything else. In a methodical, orderly fashion. And Dean is always going on about not mixing liquor so he figures he is still following some kind of rule.

He has to squint and then open his eyes wide to bring the words into focus. His handwriting is terrible at best but he knows he wrote the list right after he dropped to earth. The list is a reminder as much as anything else but it hasn't exactly done its job. He's long forgotten the list and all that it is supposed to represent and now as he looks at it and tries to recall the hopeful angel who wrote it with shaky hands, he finds he cannot. He can barely think of what the angel who wrote that would think of his future self. No wings, no heaven, just a broken soul sitting sprawled on the floor of a liquor store that's more than three quarters to empty now. It takes more effort than he think it should to find a pencil in the mess of the counter but he manages. With shaking hands, he smoothes the list out and bends over it, looking at the words that have been scrawled there and considering them. Catching his lip in his bottom teeth, he places the pencil's tip to the paper and draws a shaky line through one.

_Gluttony_

He looks around the liquor store for confirmation at the sin. He's been very gluttonous here. He puts one of the two crumpled bills on the counter and shoves the other in his pocket along with the cell phone, the pencil and the folded list. He doesn't try to justify his actions or explain them. He just enjoys the fog of his head as he fumbles with how he is going to continue to destroy himself--if that is even possible. He's a creation of God--one twice over now--but that doesn't matter to him anymore. He's a creation of God, but if his creator doesn't give a flying fuck then why the hell should he?

Before the hour is out he staggers away from the liquor store leaving behind only a few spilled drops and a clatter of empty glass bottles that fall as he upends a display case on his way out.

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He's not the first drunk person to stagger into a church.

Nor will he be the last.

Its just after an evening mass, one that was undoubtably full of sinners hoping for redemption but instead of feeling the love and devotion Castiel just feels pissed off. He means to teleport into the church but he winds up in the rose bushes outside instead. Drunken teleportation is just as ill-advised as drunken everything else. So he drops into the rose bushes, rolls to the side, gets to his feet and staggers into the church throwing the doors open and making the kind of entrance that Winchesters are infamous for. Though he's pretty sure that he's the first to interrupt a devotional service. A short time ago he would have stopped them for trying to do it but now he finds himself doing it all the same. The stink of human and sin is in the air but the church is practically deserted except for the few devotees who have stayed to pray.

Castiel watches them intently. He's seen Sam pray, in spite of all that's been done to him and he's begun to see Dean do it as well--though the elder brother does it with distaste and only in the most desperate of situations. Still it is something and Castiel was once proud of the Hunter for praying at all. Once when he thought someone gave a rats ass about prayers. But there's no one in Heaven who cares, except maybe Joshua, but even he's preoccupied with God. Castiel staggers over to the nearest pew and all but drops next to the woman with her hands clasped and her eyes closed tight. She is devout and perfect and Castiel hates her for it. He wants to know how she can still believe and before he can stop himself he tells her.

"He's not listening, you know," he tells her, his eyes locked on the figure of Jesus in his final moments of agony, "he hasn't been up there for a while."

"That's okay," she says lowering her hands and looking at him with a smile that nearly breaks his heart, "God is everywhere and he forgives us all."

She says it so earnestly that it makes him want to vomit.

He barely makes it outside before he does.

_Envy_

Vomiting outside is his last act of respect towards a God that doesn't care anymore. Its disgusting and disturbing that he can do it at all and as his throat burns with the acid of a stomach that should be empty, he realizes that he's not sure who he hates more:

Himself for his lack of devotion.

God for taking it from him.

The woman in the church who still believes in a way Castiel's sure he'll never be able to again.

As he staggers off he decides it doesn't much matter. He's still drunk and at the end of the day he hates everything now.

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He runs into her when he's staring at a whore house.

While he's shooting himself in the foot he figures he might as well go all the way. It makes sense that demons hang outside whore houses but he's still slightly surprised that its her all the same. She's not a whore, of that he's sure. The jeans, the tank top, the scar that he sees tracing her neck, all of it means that she's too imperfect to work at a joint even as low brow as this. She's leaning on the wall outside, eyes closed as though savoring what goes on inside. He's walking a bit better now but his landing is still anything but perfect and the wide smile that lights up her face tells him just how terrible his state is.

"You look like shit," she throws at him.

"You look worse," he snaps back.

"Ouch," she says with an arrogant flip of her hair, "what? God no longer have use for his little perfect solider?"

"That would be more infuriating if it did not come from the mouth of a whore that even Lucifer couldn't find a use for."

Anger makes her beautiful as her body reacts. Her cheeks flush, her brows slant and he can practically hear the pound of her heart as she glares angrily at him before her features smooth as she smiles. He watches the reactions and enjoys them a little too much, even for his own befuddled understanding. She walked forward and he waits for her until she close enough that he can see the individual lashes on her eyelids.

"That's cute,"she whispers, her voice poisonous, "coming from an Angel who threw everything away only to finally realize daddy didn't care. Not just about a failure, about everyone."

She's right.

He backhands her anyway.

She knees him in the stomach. They match blow for blow, their exchange as easy as it was the day that he fought her when the Fallen were cast out of Heaven. He's furious at God, at himself, at Dean, at the stupid woman in the church who has the kind of faith he'll never have again. But the demon's in front of him, bearing scars that remind him one time not too long ago he was a servant of God and he takes it out on her. She's a good match for him and without their masters they fight with everything they've got. She's got her fight, he's got his and somewhere in his pocket another item is crossed off his lis.

_Wrath_

They fight across the narrow alley until his back slams against the wall with enough force to make his foggy head dance with stars. He reverses their position and slams her back, pinning her hands to the space beside her head as he stares down at features and realizes its too bad that Dean has taught him scars are not unattractive things.

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He's got her pinned against the cold cement of the wall and she's pressed against him. He hasn't used his hands to pin her but his hands themselves. Both their knuckles are broken, bleeding. Both their chests are heaving. She's let him grasp her wrists and hold them against the cold stone of the wall but she hasn't relinquished an ounce of control. He is an Angel without a God, she is a Demon without the Devil to guide her wicked hand. The thought crashes onto them both, it weakens and strengthens them as they stare at each other. They are foot soldiers. They are expendable. Both have had that fact slammed in their face and maybe, just maybe, it begins to take hold.

But they both still have something.

_Pride_

She is as proud of her wickedness as he is of his goodness. Or was. He's more than halfway through the list by now and wonders if he can even be considered good anymore. His eyes leave her face and go to the scars he sees creeping the skin of her neck. When he shoved her into the flames he remembers them being lower. His eyes move down the clingy fabric that covers her chest but its his own body that stops him from seeing what he needs to. Their bodies are pressed together and Castiel is not quite prepared for what he feels when he's chest to chest with the demon. Neither is she, if the look on her face is any indication and he's not entirely sure whether he's more disgusted with himself or her. Or if he even has the right to be disgusted at anyone anymore.

"You're feeling things," she says looking up at him, her voice dripping with a combination of venom and intrigue.

"And?" he finds his voice hoarse.

"Aren't you all supposed to be cold and emotionless?" she asks rolling her head back so that her espresso colored curls fell across her shoulders and brushed the fabric of his trench coat, "but you're not running with the pack anymore, are you?"

"Neither are you," he says and finds it hard to sound ashamed with the burn of liquor and the press of body.

"Nope," she replies and there is no shame in her tone.

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He doesn't remember how they wind up in the hotel room.

He catches a glimpse of high ceilings and huge window that offer the kinds of views he's only seen when flying but the demon draws his attention to one place: her. She is teasingly delicate but thats all it is. Every flex of her wrist, every swish of her hair, every fucking sway of her hips, all of it is a tease for him. And God help him--even though he knows God's not exactly in a helping mood--he finds his body reacting to her. The worst part is that she knows it as well. She keeps her back to him as she moves, hiding the scar that is as much his fault as everything else thats brought him to this point.

"See something you like?" she asks with a teasing smile.

He says nothing and yet somehow she knows everything that is tumbling messily through his head. He watches her with what he tells himself is wariness but they both know it is something else. She is not offput by the look, if anything she enjoys the gaze he directs her way. She knows his eyes are drinking her in and whether it is suspicion, desire or just the liquor, its happening all the same. She saunters over to him, stopping when there is still distance between them and places her hands on her slim hips.

"Do angels fuck?" she asks, her tone blunt, "because in Hell, you know, we can--but its not the same," she turns and steps to the side, circling him. He follows her, his body turning towards her as she traces some invisible pattern along the scars that decorate her throat, "you need a Vessel to make it really _really_ good," her fingers trail down to the shirt she wears, toying idly with the hem, "it just doesn't feel the same without--" she pauses, giving him the kind of smile that makes his breath catch and suddenly she's in front of him, her hand pressing somewhere that Castiel's not entirely prepared for, "this."

"You're a demon," he finds his voice but pride won't let him move away.

"No more than you're an Angel," she says stepping closer until her body is pressed fully against his, "and God doesn't care anymore, remember?"

He knows this is wrong. knows it and yet his body wants it _so_ badly that he can barely see strait. He remembers the whore that Dean had set him with, the blond woman who was so sad it stole Castiel's breath. She's not sad, not really. Broken, sure, but not sad. The pieces of her broken soul are rough, sharp. He'll get cut, he knows it, but physical pain can only help to alleviate the deep, painful ache in his own sharp, rough, broken soul. Angel's aren't supposed to go on benders, he knows it and yet even as he stands there with a demon's lips a whisper from his own, he realizes that if being an Angel means taking orders from a God whose thrown everything he believes to the side, then he doesn't much want to be an Angel anymore.

At least not right now.

So he wraps his hand around the back of her shirt, fingers sliding up to the skin hidden by the fabric of her shirt. She watches him, her eyes searching his face as he splays his fingers on the bare skin of her back and pulls her roughly closer to him. Her lips part in surprise before they widen at the action, like his reaction is a prize she's won. The hand that touches him slides up past his belt, to his chest, fingers twining around the tie that he's still got knotted around his throat. He doesn't speak as she toys with the silk, her eyes never leaving his and he finds he wants everything. The skin, the hair, the sweet, wicked body pressed against his. Its sick, twisted and wrong and yet he wants it anyway. He's already rebelled against Heaven once. And if God finds it unforgivable, well, they've both done things that Castiel finds unforgivable so at the end of the day they're back to square one. Him and his God. So he pulls her closer, drowns in the perfume she wears and knows that however broken he is, she is just as broken as well and that makes him want her even more.

_Lust_

"You never answered my question," she tells him, moving her head so her hair falls against his coat and he finds himself entranced by the sight of espresso on tan, "do they fuck?"

"I'm not an Angel," he says, his lips finding hers.

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They fuck.

_Greed_

There's no way to get around it, no veil they can pull over it. The first time is hurried, rough and up against a wall with her slim legs hooked around his hips. He only makes it out of his trench coat and blazer and the entire time she keeps his tie wrapped around her fingers. He's watched humanity enough to know the general theory but nothing can quite prepare him for what he's feeling when he thrusts into her. She makes sounds in the back of her throat that drive him forward and its done quickly.

The next time is slower and its on the bed and if it wasn't _them_ and it wasn't like this, Castiel thinks it would be beautiful. His body reacts powerfully to the sensation of her body around his--but it also reacts to the expressions on her face. She is wild and free and dangerous, the antithesis of everything that he is and Castiel finds it both repulsive and enthralling. He's glad he's drunk. Glad that his thoughts are muddled. Glad that even if every thrust and bite and lick is tone with the sting of liquor and regret, he's too drunk to really notice or to care. God's going to let the world end anyway and Castiel's finding it very hard to care whether it'd be worse to go to Hell which is, well, Hell or to Heaven with a God who washed his hands of the apocalypse.

"Hell," she pants out and he realizes he must have voiced something without realizing it.

She takes advantage of his pause to flip their positions so she is on top, her hands braced against his shoulders. She takes no care now to hide the scars and he finds he doesn't not think they are bad. Scars are badges of survival. She survived holy fire--and him. He feels a sting on his neck from where she's bitten him and he wonders if he'll survive this and her with the same 'fuck you' attitude she so carelessly displays. She delights in the confusion on his face and bends down, catching his earlobe in her teeth and moving her hips in a way that makes his back arch and his hands dig into her skin.

"Hell," she repeats firmly, her breath hot on his neck and the shell of his ear, "there's less bullshit."

They fuck again and again and again until they collapse next to each other, too exhausted to fight over demons and angels and the bullshit that doesn't seem to really matter. Castiel finds that while its hard for an Angel to get drunk, its even harder for them to get un-drunk and he's still smashed. She is unashamed of her nakedness and turns to face him fully, propping a head up on her hand as she looks at him. He turns his gaze to her.

"its all bullshit," he says, voice dull to his own ears.

"Well aren't you just the happiest little angel," she mocks.

He's exhausted but he rolls over and traps her hands by her head anyway, pinning her down. Their nudeness should make it sexual but it doesn't. He's angry and it shows on his face but she is unafraid.

"I am _not_ an angel," he repeats firmly because at the moment, just now, he can't be an angel. Not when he's fucked a demon, drank a liquor store, envied a woman for her faith, beat a vessel, indulged in his greed and lust and wrath and every sin that he swore never to feel. That he never knew he _could_ feel, "i am not," he repeats.

Her nod surprises him.

Her kiss does not.

"No more than I'm a demon," she says and when he opens his mouth to protest she kisses him again, long and hard and hot before laying her head down and looking up at him coyly, "fair's fair."

Fair's got nothing to do with it but he surprises himself when he lets her go and rolls to the side. She scoots next to him, laying her head on his chest and he finds he doesn't exactly want to push away the warm, comforting weight on his shoulder.

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Its hours later when he hears the phone ring.

He knows its the Winchesters.

Still fighting, still struggling, still needing the help of a guardian angel who can't really call himself that anymore. He hears the phone ring but when he moves to get up he is stopped both by the liquor that makes his head spin and by the warm body that tightens its sleepy grip around him. He looks down at her and realizes that they have both been asleep--even though neither really needs it. Without the malice or sin on her face she looks actually beautiful. Not in the warped demonic way but the way that so few women are. He saw it in the Harvelle women before they died and he sees that in her now too.

He blames it on the liquor.

Not on the fact that she is just like him. Broken, bruised and betrayed. Because if he does, if he starts to see the similarities between them now, he's going to really loose it. He hears the phone ring and he lets it go to his voicemail even though he's not sure how to follow the directions of the annoying, invisible woman who tells him to do things that make no sense. In the dark he pulls the warm body next to him and breaths in the smell of her hair and crosses the final item off the list.

_Sloth_

The Winchesters can hold on for a few more hours. Besides, as he is, he's useless to them anyway. They need an angel to protect them, to guide them, to keep them on the path.

And, at the moment, Castiel is not an angel.

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She wakes up alone.

She's glad.

There's a lingering smell of angel and alcohol over everything including her and she half expects to find feathers around. When she moves she does find that she is sore and doesn't bother to waste her energy trying to make herself feel better. She gets up and walks towards the hotel room's large bathroom when something catches her eye. She walks over to the mini bar, surprised to find it open. Open and empty, the little glass bottles scattered across the floor. If she was paying for the hotel room she'd be pissed. Instead she's just amused. She crosses her arms with a smile and looks at the mess before her eye catches the two items that do not belong there.

On top of the fridge she finds a crumpled five dollar bill and a list.

There are seven items on the list.

_Gluttony_

_Envy_

_Wrath_

_Pride_

_Lust_

_Greed_

_Sloth_

Each one is crossed out.

She feels her sore body and taste the liquor on her tongue and, for the first time in a long time, feels an odd sense of accomplishment. She picks up a pencil, turns the list over and begins one of her own, writing down a seven words before drawing a neat line through the first.

_Diligence _

Meg smiles.

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**Okay this is unlike anything I've done before. **

**Um, yeah, sorry about the OOC-ness, I blame it on Castiel's breakdown. **

**Please review! If you guys like it I might be persuaded to do a sequel with them and the 7 virtues. Even if you don't want that please review!**

**So Please review!**


	2. Psychomachia

**I wasn't actually planning to update this but after I got over my shock at Cas being, well, whatever they did to him, I decided it was time for a fan fiction fix it. And I thought since the last time Cas's breakdown was the opportunity to do the seven sins, him being possessed would be a great opportunity to do the virtues. But there needed to be a transition so this is it.**

**Aka Meg and Cas have Leviathan!sex. **

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She doesn't know how the Leviathan finds her, she just knows it does.

The Levianthan appears in her room with a manical grin that's so shockingly unlike the angel she's used to seeing in the meat suit that she knows something is terribly wrong before she senses the foreign presence inside him. She's surprised enough to back away from him but that only makes the grin widen as his head jerks to the side, revealing the ebony scrollwork that cracks the skin of it vessel. Her retreat is almost involuntary and she is painfully aware of how helpless she is. Of how incredibly strong the darkness inside the angel is.

She's terrified.

Her palms are slick and her heart is racing. Her breath catches in her throat as her foot jerks back towards the wall. The urge to run is overwhelming, especially when its blackened tongue traces the outline of its lips in twisted anticipation. Her back collides with the wall and suddenly there's nowhere else to go because it's in front of her and it's pinned her arms to the wall without so much as raising a hand to her.

It's head dips down, inhaling her scent and the smile that graces its lips is pure evil.

"So you're what God created to replace us," it murmurs in his voice, it's tongue daring out and touching her flesh, sending sparks racing across her skin, "so delicious."

She hates the stab of heat that goes through her at the compliment and tells herself it has more to do with the sheer power coming from the familiar meat suit, power that the angel did not display. Grudgingly she can admit that the angel's always been somewhat powerful but this, this is power beyond time or reason, before God had a plan figured out and just went to town. She tries to focus on the faint scar on her neck, of when the angel shoved her into the flames to save his own sorry ass. Clarence heading back to heaven.

She does _not_ think about when they found each other, both so close to ruin. She does not think about how it felt to kiss an angel, how the rush of power was accompanied by the sting of tequila and vodka. She does not think about how he started out unsure and by the end had her rethinking what she felt about angels. Well, maybe not all angels, but certainly that one in particular. Of course then he was gone and belatedly she realized that maybe she'd been too good a teacher. Jumping from sex to one night stand was quite the leap to make in a few hours.

The thing's tongue darts out once more, tracing the faint scar as if it has any idea what the raised skin means. She wonders if whatever this thing is has his memories, his thoughts, if that is why he is here. She almost dismisses the notion before she remembers that she's got no idea what it's capable of and maybe it's seen all of it. And when it's fingers, with it's diseased and cracked nails skim the edge of her panties she thinks that maybe they do.

"Maybe I am what God created," she gets out on a breathy voice as the pad of its thumb, still rough from the days when the meat suit was an angel gripping a sword, dips below the lace, "question is, what are you?"

"I am Leviathan," it says, its voice slightly less manical as its fingers dip lower.

There is interest in the thing's features, interest from the demon that wears his face. The Leviathan's bigger, stronger, faster than anything she's encountered before. But she's survived plenty of things that should have killed her and she knows an opening when she sees one. And there's definitely one in the interest written on the Leviathan's face as its fingers go lower. She makes a small sound in the back of her throat and spreads her legs wider.

"Does that hurt?" it asks, the naked curiosity they inject into his voice making her heart skip.

"No," she lies as his thumb presses somewhere that makes her knees buckle on their own accord, showing her where her opening for a counter will come from "keep going," she whispers encouragingly.

The Leviathan does and it doesn't take long for tentative curiosity to give way to full on cruelty. It delights in making her scream, though the Leviathan can't quite figure out the difference between a scream of pain and that of pleasure. She discovers that it is frightening how often the two seem to overlap. But thankfully while cruelty might come naturally to the Leviathan, it seems to tire out quickly and before long they are laying side by side on the bed.

She lays beside the creature in the darkness and tries not to jerk when its breath catches. She tells herself that the thing laying next to her is not the angel she knows and maybe has begun to respect. This thing is ancient and evil and, if she's being perfectly honest, not entirely as good in bed. While she lays there being honest she grudgingly admits the eyes look weird and she kind of misses the sharp feeling she'd get when the angel would loose control of his wings and brush them up against her.

In the darkness she turns over to look at him. Realizing the Leviathan will need an excuse for why she is studying him should he wake, she carefully hitches her leg over his slim hips and straddles him. She lowers herself down and he does not stir. Tilting her head to the side, she leans forward and brings their faces closer together. Carefully she lets her guard down and allows her true side to come out.

"Hey," she whispers, "are you in there?"

He does not stir and she feels anger stir in her. Stranger still, she feels disappointment. Until this moment she had not realized how much she had assumed that he would come back. He had lost his faith and survived, he had fallen just about as far as she'd ever heard an angel go without loosing his Grace. But apparently this was the final straw. This, this _thing_ had taken him over and suddenly he was just gone.

Before she can stop herself she draws back her hand and slaps him.

"Wake up!" she orders and is surprised at the shrill sound in her voice, "wake _up_!" she demands again and her hand strikes his chest, "Castiel!"

His eyes fly open at the shout of his name.

They are tortured and pained and so blue that it knocks the breath from her lungs at the same time the ruined tatters of his wings jerk against her legs. He twists in agony as the tatters rub against the bed and his skin and before her brain catches up she's yanked him upwards to relieve the pressure. His eyes roll widely around, struggling to make sense of the world before they land on her and she swears it is not relief that fills her gut.

"What do I do?" she demands, ignoring the pitch in her voice.

"Crowley," he pants out "Crowley knows."

"Crowley?" she demands.

He nods and she feels indigent anger pound through her. He's been all 'angel' this and 'heaven' that ever since he got over his little breakdown while at the same time shacking up with a demon-with _Crowley_ no less? Suddenly she wants to slap him because it's so fucking stupid. Even demons know nothing good can come from shacking up with Crowley but the stupid _stupid_ angel between her legs didn't get the damn memo.

"It wants him dead," the angel whispers desperately, "he knows somethi-" his word trails off with a hoarse shout as the Leviathan surges forward to reclaim its vessel.

"Okay, okay, Crowley I got it," she says.

Later she'll realize that she agreed without consideration, that some part of her would do anything to stop the desperation in his blue eyes. And just after that she'll close the door to the bathroom and put her hand through the mirror. But at the moment she agrees instantly and is rewarded with some of the pain leaving his eyes. His fingers dig into the skin of her hip but she ignores her own pain and focuses on his.

"I know what I have to do," she tells him, "now let go," she tells him and isn't entirely certain why her voice sounds so odd. He looks pained and confused and uncomprehending, "let go," she repeats, "because when I find Crowley and we find out how to get you away from the bastard I'm going to need you to fight."

"I'll be ready," he pants out.

In a fit of insanity she reaches down and grasps his wing, desperate for him to remember that he is an angel and he was always meant to fight. The look in his eyes is unreadable but she holds his gaze for as long as she can. The Leviathan takes him over with shocking speed. The wings beneath her fingertips tremble and flutter, as though he about to take flight with their tattered edges. One moment she is looking at the angel's gaze and the next his eyes have gone black as the Leviathan snares him in its grasp.

She barely has enough time to sit back and slide onto him, moving her hand back between their knees. Leviathan gives her a look of confusion until she rolls her hips. It cocks its head to the side and lets her be on top for another hip roll before it flips them over. The Leviathan seems to enjoy what it does to her as she slides her hands under the pillow and tries to react the way it wants her to. It's difficult but after several more hours the Leviathan rolls over and she might be bloody and sore but she is alive.

She counts that as a victory.

The sun is just coming up as the Leviathan falls asleep again. She makes a note of the primal nature of this creature. It gets tired and sleeps and enjoys sex. She has a feeling that it eats a lot as well, probably disgusting things. She hopes one of them isn't a demon or if it is that the Leviathan will like her for sex more than food. When its breathing evens out she reaches up underneath the pillow. She allows her demon side to come out, for her eyes to go black and be able to see the feather that lies in her palm. It is crumpled from her hand and the damage done by the Leviathan but it is there none the less. She has proof that somewhere inside the corrupted form the angel is there.

And she will get him out.

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**So expect the Seven Virtues very soon. **


End file.
